Teenaged dirt bag,baby
by WinterGlass
Summary: ... in some nameless city, the derelict gutter punk Kenny builds his style, learns the art of piercing, jams with his underground roommates , and befreinds a DIY Mimiru...
1. Of allys and chords

Teenage dirt bag

You know the drill…don't own Beyblade, Mimiru, or any character I put in here, however Drast, Slit, Strela, and Dreamy are mine.

Her name is Noel

I have a dream about her

She rings my bell

Kenny exhaled a low breathe, nonchalantly flipping off the crowd of jocks that were huddled around some cheerleader harlot. Yes, harlot, he knew what that meant. Unlike the vast multitude of this hellhole they called a school, he knew enough to realize that it was pretty much run by some jarhead in a jersey. Sneering at the thought, he slipped Dizzi, his ever faithful journal into its case. The back of his mind smirking at the stitching that he himself had placed there, sown free handed on some sleepless summer night.

Popping the finger off once again, he hustled to the fence marking the boundary of the prison that was his high school, throwing his messenger bag over the wall then himself in a show of agility that was belied by his gaunt physique, heavy glasses, and low swaggering bangs which concealed his face. Catching himself as he crested the faded brick barrier, he clutched his single strapped haversack to his side and took off along the narrow strip of concrete that peaked the dusty red barricade. The thick metal of his heavy boots clacking against the rough surface,

I got a gym class from heaven

And I roll how she rocks

In kids and tube socks

Dismounting the six foot high divide as it ended against the back of some nameless two story building, he kicked off the wall onto a disused dumpster two feet below. Barely recoiling as he took off with a leap from the reeking metal box, he landed heavily several feet away, knees almost against his chest, hand slammed aggressively into the graying pavement beneath him.

Letting his caramel hair shift from the impact, he cast a focused eye of bottle green across the ally before him. As if wary of the urban landscape he called his home, he continue on , still at a brisk pace through the narrow way of the trash lined alleyway .Kicking a bottle at a curious raccoon in the process.

But she doesn't know who I am

And she doesn't give a damn about me

Cus I'm just a teenage dirt bag, baby!

Kenny finally ceased his trek through the close walls of the inner city. Wrapping his gloved digits around a rusting fire escape, he ascended it just as rapidly as he had traversed the rest of his weaving course through the city maze. The roughly 1k trek seeming to take nothing more from his breathe then a slight pant and a bead of sweat drawing down his cheek. Brushing it away, with the tattered sleeve of his patched hoodie, he clicked open the exposed latch of an adjacent window and through his leg over, bringing the rest of himself through with a lunge.

Yeah I'm just a teenage dirt bag baby !

Listen to iron maiden, baby !

And me! oh, oh, oh ,ohhh!

Discarding his hefty satchel on a duct-taped couch that looked as if it had (and ironically enough was) pulled from a street curb. He collapsed onto the destitute cushion next to it, not at minding the fact that it was spilling that oh-so-annoying yellow foam onto his bag. Reclining back he gave a long sigh and closed his eyes. In the corner of his mind, the section that still registered sensory perception after he had resigned himself to resting his eyes ,he heard a resonating chord from a familiar guitarist's strings, tuning up for some impromptu strumming. Surly enough, moments later the opening peal to "Anarchy in the UK" came screaming through the few sparsely decorated rooms he was currently jammed into.

Smirking coyly, he dashed over to the corner of the "living" room, where an empty guitar stand, three wooden amps of varying sizes tacked together by bolts, disarrayed stacks of music, both printed by machine and scribbled together by hand, a set of drums piled against the wall, and most notably another guitar. Of course this one was special; he gleamed to himself as he took his custom electric axe, feeling the base of the resin neck beneath his fingers.

Casting a practiced gaze over the instrument he marveled once again at the handiwork he had managed to work into his derelict possessions. For where a normal black casing had once been now stood a personalized creation, in a masterfully symmetrical pattern, where fixed strips of purple velvet, cut into shapes that appeared to resemble as angry violet demon eyes, leveling a blurry stare at all comers. Stroking the edge of one of the lethal looking curves, he grabbed an amp and took of into the next room, sliding onto the dilapidated area rug that was thrown across the hardwood flooring of the five room apartment. Kicking down the fold he created, he threw down the amp, plugged it into the maxed out power bar, from which the room's grand total of three appliances (including the imac perched directly on the floor behind him) drew their power, and picking up onto the chords plucked his nickel strings along with one of his fellow insolvent roomies.

Letting his music meld with hers, the practiced chords syncing into a wash of some nameless tune the pair concocted a second at a time, Kenny's overtaxed mind slipped from his string work into a memory he often played, like the first book you grabbed from a stack on a rainy Friday afternoon, sinking into it's mental pages for the unnumbered time.

Meet Kenny; sixteen years old, about 56, green eyes, caramel hair, kick-ass guitarist, apprentice piercer, and oh yeah…absolutely no family.

Before you start assuming he's just another kid out for revenge on some jackass that killed his folks, listen to this. He left on his own, two years four homes and three hundred miles ago, Kenny was just another geek in some dead end high school churning out blue collared office lackeys and retail workers by the class load, rarely even so much as a university student gracing the bucolic walls within.

Each mourning he'd wake up, throw his books into his bag, mumble a "g'bye" to his mom preparing the breakfast special for their restaurant, kick into his running shoes, and trot out the side door.

Without fail, the jocks gathered around the hole in fence through which he passed would shout some lame insult, sometimes surrounding him and pummeling him into the dust, Afterwards skipping off to class , leaving him to cough out some blood and go through the mindless tedium of another day limping.

Sighing for the umpteenth time today, he looked back onto his previous life, he still trotted off to school, albeit not so regularly (giving a chuckle at the thought of ever attending a _real _class again), each day he still took his share of bruises (although now he was strangely proud of the scars the inner city gangs left him with). A Glint now in his eye, he exhaled his past away, keeping all but a singular thought with him in his resurface to the present.

Pumping his fingers into the beat his partner provided with her acoustic rhythm, compounded by the clanking of her cross-laced knee high boots against the half- swept paneling of the floor. Taking the solo to a Nightwish-esque shimmer, he tousled his over-shaggy mane, his deep emerald eyes ending their toss staring at the high combat boots he tucked his deviantly baggy quasi-tripp pants into. Smiling to himself as he came to the realization that he hadn't wore that old pair of sneakers he'd "escaped" in, or any pair of shoes for that matter, since that faithful night in May, two years ago…

"Problem Kenny-chan?" his partner inquired in her sing-song voice, finally letting her nail polish encrusted guitar rest.

"No…I'm fine Mimiru-chan" Kenny replied, propping his baby against the stand his cohort had seen fit to bring to their jam session

"Aww.. You don't look fine" her voice coyly inquiring into him,

pulling her skirted fanny off the plushy depths of the recliner she'd kicked into the centre of the room. The sequined garment complimenting her spiky auburn locks with its glittering volcom stone like patterns set on a field of black. For comfort reasons a set of wide legged atlas pants having been thrown on under it and shoved into her signature pair of knee-high platforms.

"It's just…you know... bad day" Kenny somberly iterated as the female opposite him, as she pulled up beside his cross legged perch on the hardwood.

Sitting down beside him, she cast an arm over his petite figure (her own not dissimilar from his, just with the addition of a generous set of curves), "Sucks, I know…" Easing her head onto his shoulder coyly smiling as his cheek brushed hers.

"Yeah… how'd yours go?" he slipped his arm across her shoulders, replying her affectionate gesture.

"Boring…made a skirt, tuned the git-box" she lazily replied.

"So how bad exactly was yours" Mimiru tossed him the question before closing her eyes

Kenny exhaled slowly, then answered, "I restate, sucked to a level I've never even see!"

Mimiru smirked roguishly, "Aww…Anything a fuck would solve?" They giggled at her remark, Kenny however, ceased when the buxom teen on his shoulder casually swung her leg over him and pulled herself onto his lap, their eyes locked onto one another, smirking all the while.

A coy mood shot through Kenny's demeanor, placing both his hands around her waist and lifting her in one smooth, solid motion. "Kenny! You little cunt tease!" Mimiru squealed as she was pressed into the cushy chair in front of them , then quickly rotated to straddle him once again.

"Cunt tease?" Kenny asked as he pressed his lips to hers

"mmhhm… Cunt tease.. " she answered slowly rocking her hips rhythmically against his outer thighs. Her eyes once again closed in pleasure

"Sorry Mimiru… no lays tonight… I just need to get a little hot and heavy" he whispered into her ear as she lightly sucked on the pierced tip of his. Receiving a miniscule plea of complaint from her, he eased her back, planted a quick kiss onto her lips, and then softly iterated to her, "that's okay, right?" She calmly pressed into him, locking lips as she replied. "Of course," pecking his upper lip before allowing the tip of his tongue to slid into her warm mouth, "just finish it later, kay?" he smiled through his oral ministrations "kay"


	2. Rise of the skirted one

6:47 PM Friday

A cough rang out through the silent living room.

Mimiru stuck her head in from the kitchen. Pausing the preparation of whatever nasty concoction she was hastily frying up for dinner. Kenny was busying himself with the changing of Mimru's guitar strings. Keeping his head down to avoid directly inhaling the surly toxic fumes emanating from his roommate's cooking.

"That you Kenny-kun?" Mimru fleetingly asked as she ducked back into the narrow kitchen to prevent the searing material in her wok from bursting into flame.

"Nah, must be one of our oh-so-active roomies" Kenny jeeringly replied as he brought a pair of pliers he kept on a nearby amp to the excess string jutting from his female friend's baby.

Not a second had passed since Kenny completed his mocking comment, when an imposing figure abruptly burst from behind one of the two bedrooms adjacent to the unfurnished space of the living room.

"Oh, ha ha, Kenny, we're all in stitches" .Came the smooth yet textured voice of Drast, once again attaining a level of synthesized contempt that had rendered him serious on all but the most jovial of occasions.

Completing his sarcastic shot at Kenny's sense of humor, the cynical teen quickly sauntered his way over to another disused amp, this one serving primarily as a seat as its woofer had been blown out by on of Strela's (another roommate, still unconscious in the remaining bedroom, most likely in some sort of pile with Slit, or a headlock from Dreamy) crazy sub-sonic bass riffs.

Casting a glance up from pruning the aged metal from Mimiru's fingerboard, he recoiled, almost dropping the pliers onto his unguarded feet in the process. Drast, as always, was clad in one of his flowing man-skirts, completely sheathing the space between his thick skull buckle belt and the tan maple floor, in folds of black and ultra-marine fabric. Bound together with overt azure thread, connecting the quartet of heavily zippered, chain-laden, and bracket burdened material, it was quite a show of his skill with a needle. Although it was a bit unnerving to see the pale nineteen year-old clad in a garment Kenny had previously thought was strictly for women.

Sighing at his own reaction to his roommate's dress, he regained control of the pliers and set back to work. Knowing his cohort was testiest just after he awoke he Kept his eyes on his work, and not on Drast's. Although sure enough as if purely to defy himself, seconds later he swung a gaze over to where Drast had seated himself, and apparently produced a dark plastic brush from one of his skirt's many pockets. Running it through his waist length tresses, Drast tamed his cobalt strands, a ritual he did upon waking each and every day.

Mimiru ducked her head back into the narrow archway that divided the open space of the all purpose room, with the cramped confines of the kitchen.

"YO! Drast! What cha want on your shrimp?" she squealed over the hiss of the searing prawns, a little too loudly perhaps, as the remaining members of the local dream world where probably planning on sleeping for at least a while longer. Seeing he was preening his delectably lengthy crop of cobalt, she put on a smirk "Man, your hair's getting looong, Drasty, can I braid it sometime?" ending with the display of some of her pretty-much-perfect teeth.

Drast, cocking his brow, newly set with a pair of barbells, let the feeblest of grins percolate to his mouth, sublimely thanking his peppy roommate for the follicle related compliment. Dryly, he responded "Just that sauce you make, and you may if you wish." Leaving the bare answers out for her, she grinned ear to ear, then winked.

The sound of a wok full of shrimp being doused with a minute dash of olive oil followed her reemergence into the kitchen.


End file.
